


Oh-So-Sensitive

by Sasine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-07 07:03:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15213755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasine/pseuds/Sasine
Summary: In this moment Sherlock knows he's ruined everything. He can't bear to look at John, afraid to see what degree of fury or hatred will be etched in the deep lines of the man's face. Hesitantly, he glances up. To his great surprise, what he sees there isn't rage or even confusion. An intense look of concentrated lust is etched deeply in the furrows of John's face.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock isn’t completely oblivious to sex, despite what John likes to believe. Okay, yes, perhaps he was, but that was  _before_ John Watson came into his life. 

When they first met, John would often confront Sherlock about sex. Not being confrontational, not being pushy, per se, more trying to understand. Sherlock has become adept at slipping away during these times, or when he can't do that, and when rolling his eyes doesn't turn John away, he falls back to his defense mechanism, turning it back on John and making fun of how ridiculously vocal his last partner was. He's become so good at this that John not only has stopped even bringing sex up, except in a random moment, but John's almost entirely stopped bringing his partners over to the apartment. 

But Sherlock knows he shouldn't be so mean, John isn't intending to be rude with his gentle questioning. Sherlock can see the curiosity and the questions etched deeply in the lines on John’s face.  _How can Sherlock possibly not want to have sex._

For John, Sherlock imagines this borders on madness. John Watson, a man who's satisfied his personal hot-blooded male urges on no less than three continents, must believe Sherlock is faking his asexuality.

Which...the thing is…maybe he is.

 

* * *

Stupid nightmare voice-Moriarty is right about one thing, Sherlock does feel too much. He always has, ever since he was a small child. It’s what made childhood so incomprehensibly miserable for him, at the whims of a sadistic sister, retreating to his mind to get away from feeling. But it was always impossible. He always felt it.

“You’re just Too sensitive.” His parents would state, not cruelty,but often enough and in so many ways Sherlock stopped coming to them when he was crying. They couldn’t imagine their daughter being mean, but in doing so they ignored his pains and Sherlock in turn had to deal with them by himself. He grew to hate the idea of pain… and isn’t that an integral part of all sex? How can he not fear it?

But he has tried it on, so to speak, despite what his brother or John thinks.

He's thirteen when he goes into his room after school, closes the door, his brain filled with thoughts of all the boys who play rugby in his class, larger than him, some of them are bullies. Sherlock hates bullies, but some of them aren't. It's them he thinks about. Clothes off, naked, reaching down, he uses a single, slender digit. He circles his anus for some time, shivering all the while, until he finally pushes inside. He keens, and on instinct, pulls out. He isn't sure if he likes it or not, so he tries again, this time he presses in far enough he touches something, just a light touch but it's enough. He screams. Loudly.

He must have passed out for a minute, the next thing he knows he has a thin clear fluid on his belly, he's soft, but his finger is still part inside himself, and his  _father_ is above him, growling at him. Accusing him of being all sorts of filthy things Holmes should not be.   _Naughty._ That's what he says.  _Naughty._ _Not good._

When he's a little older, he sneaks into his mother's things. He's fishing for one of her pretty scarves, wanting to use it for dance class. He gasps when, upon reaching for and pulling on the end of a sparkly pink silk scarf he realizes it was wrapped around something. He discovers that thing to be a very large, very pink dildo. He just holds it, his breath going erratic, until he hears footsteps down the hall and quickly wraps it  back up and puts it back where he found it.  
  
He never again goes to look at it. But it stays with him, the feel of it, the heavy hugeness in his slender hands. He knows what it's for but the thought of having sex with it or anything like it is mind-boggling. 

As he grows older the fear of sex gets worse, he loves being in control of his mind and body so much, the thought that having sex will him to lose that increases to a near psychosis, until eventually Sherlock writes sex off entirely. It isn’t needed. He’s better off without it, which is about as true for him as chemistry. After this he goes about life as a self-proclaimed asexual.

Which works amazingly well. It isn’t until his early thirties when he meets John Watson, he knows he needs to change his thinking. 

 

* * *

 

John is the most handsome man he’s ever seen. Everything about him is gorgeous: broad of features and frame, strong yet comforting and protective when he needs to be. And Sherlock knows, has always known, in that to the marrow sort of way, if he were ever to have sex, he would be, is, very, very gay. John is everything he could ever have dreamed of in a man. _The Ideal Man_. Sherlock finds himself not just wanting to keep John interested in him, but is genuinely becoming interested in sex himself, like never before.  He wants to do everything with John. He wants to have John. He wants to let John have him... except for that, that last part part… That’s the part that makes him shiver. Sherlock deduces, well a single look to John’s crotch is all it takes, he's going to need a lot of learning in that area.

One evening, when John is attending a medical conference, Sherlock goes to bed early. He gets naked and just sits on his bed. His ribs hurt his heart's pounding against them so badly. H takes a deep breath. God, he's not even sure what he's really supposed to do. What he _wants to do._ He doesn't intend to do anything, not really; he just wants to relax. Then he thinks about it: John will be hooking up with probably no less than 3 other women over the weekend. _Fucking them._

Sherlock doesn't want to think about that, not in detail. It's a hard fact about John Watson's life that the man has a huge libido.

He looks down at his chest, notes his nipples are swollen from the exposure. On instinct he touches one. Immediately a jolt of sensation shivers down his spine. With a whimper he does he skims across the the other, this time it's a near powerful shock of pleasure racing through him. Already breathy, he realizes those pink little nubs are overly sensitive, best not to touch them too much right now.

Instead he finds himself closing his eyes and tipping over onto his side, his fingers wandering down his sides, slipping behind, skimming, just skimming, across the smooth soft flesh of his ass. A small little moan falls from his lips. 

Outside his volition, his fingertips draw nearer and nearer to the seam of his cheeks. In languorous, almost timid flirting, they push and slide, push and slide, until they manage to pry their way inside the tight snug channel between the mounds. Slipping deeper, they make an exploratory caress of his tiny hole.

A cried-out gasp escapes his lungs at the feeling, the touch so light, so delicate, yet this is the most intimate, most vulnerable place of his body. His body immediately begins tingling, nerves singing for more. It’s already nearly too much. Breathing gone erratic his finger continues the light touch, rubbing, circling around the too-tight ring of muscle that makes up his anus. He uses another finger to stroke at his perineum, zipping another response through his nerve endings, but this immediate pleasure eases himself into the act to come -- and he slowly finds himself relaxing.

It feels good. It feels better than good. It feels incredible, stimulating himself, this is decadent and hedonistic, exploring himself like this, stimulating the prostate through the thickness of fat and perineal muscle, which even with so much between the organ and his finger, he's still so _sensitive._ His rim now loosened, the tip of his finger now slips inside. He ever so slowly works it in deeper.

His breathing has turned raspy, raising in pitch. He tries closing his parted mouth to keep from hearing those sounds. It's distressing, that: how _distressed_ he sounds. Sherlock's always worked to maintain his deeper voice, smoking as much as he can, doing vocal exercises to lower it. Right now all those years of hard work are getting razed in a few minutes, more when he begins working that timid little finger deeper, in and out, in and out, ever so slowly, fucking himself with increasing desire and fearlessness. To say he feels wanton would be an understatement. He feels... slutty...naughty. Everything a Holmes boy is  _not_ supposed to be according to his family. 

He pulls the finger out, wets it and another in his mouth, and returns them back between his asscheeks to the outer rectal muscle, this time attempting to press both inside. It's exponentially more difficult though. The tiny tight muscle resists and resists, and Sherlock is panting with desperation and persistence, fingers going forward and back, rubbing the rim in circular motions to relax it, until finally after a few minutes it's enough and both slip inside. He bites his lip to keep from crying out but it doesn't quite manage the job. It burns. The greater stretch definitely hurts. But Sherlock doesn't shy away from it anymore. He's more confident now, he wants to, no he needs to experience this.

Along with being fuller, he goes deeper, luxuriates in touching himself here. It's strange, the sensation of his soft, smooth inner walls rippling ruthlessly around him. But it feels good. Amazing. Beyond forbidden and beyond naughty - if his father could see his boy now - he just keeps fucking and stroking the inner rectum, back out, deeper inside, rhythmically fucking himself, until... 

A wall of blinding pleasure slams though his body and whiting out his vision. Sherlock lets out an inarticulate wail, his face falling to his pillow to muffle most of the sound he hopes. He penis bounces, it had only been slightly fuller than flaccid before this very second but, after touching his prostate it suddenly hardens and shots out thin spray of white come. His insides vice around his fingers and he can't retract them. Nor can he stop from screaming, lightening tearing through every nerve ending in his body.

For the first time in his adult life, Sherlock comes.

He promptly passes out. When he wakes to what turns out to be, to his horror, nearly twelve hours later, he immediately grabs his phone on the side table and orders an slew of toys. 

He later goes to the kitchen to make tea and he finds Mrs. Hudson there. 

She smiles and pats his shoulder. "I'm so proud of you, young man. But I must ask for you to wait a few days before you do anymore _personal_ experimenting. There just aren't enough herbal soothers in the world to keep from hearing you, my dear, and the industrial headphones I bought will take a few days to arrive."

Sherlock's eyes go wide but he nods dumbly and agrees. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Sherlock dutifully obeys Mrs. Hudson's censure, giving her fair warning when he practices. As far as John is concerned, Sherlock takes extra precautions to avoid him, training his hole only on nights when John will be gone for all or most of it. Nights when John is out drinking with friends, away at conferences, or out on a date.

 

It happens all too often for Sherlock’s tastes.

 

John chats up a nurse as Sherlock practically stomps his foot in impatience. The doctor has finally agreed to help Sherlock on the current case, a level 9 no less. But getting him to leave the hospital is proving more difficult than Sherlock would like. The deep lines around John's dark blue eyes crinkle gorgeously. Right now he's giving that broad, charming, patented Watson smile at some dull blonde nurse named Sarah or Amy or something equally bland.

 

A spike of jealousy hits Sherlock's heart. He wishes John would smile at him like that. He gets those crinkle smiles but they're normally accompanied by a sardonic remark or smirk or only on times when Sherlock says something clever. Never used simply to try and woo Sherlock like John woos his girlfriends.

 

Thankfully, John will date the nurse for just a few weeks, and at least it gives Sherlock more opportunities.

 

Ironically, those nights only strengthen Sherlock's resolve.

 

Not that Sherlock needs much encouragement anymore; not ever since his heretofore virgin prostate was first touched. He trembles sometimes when he's just fiddling with an experiment simply at the aching remembrance of it. He tries to touch himself there as often as he can. Screams himself hoarse only to find his brain and thoughts again finding his voice hoarse with screaming for several minutes, with a small pool of thin come on his belly after coming.

His recent online purchases quickly amass into a nice trove of over two dozen toys, an assortment running the gamut from vibrators, small dildos, prostate massagers, and finally more life-like larger dildos.  

 

He mostly sticks with the smaller toys. He's not yet sure he likes the too-sore feeling when he takes anything over five inches in length, three and a half in circumference. It leads to a feeling of being overly-full and overly-sore. He is clever enough to recognize it as a distressing sign. Eventually his body will need to learn to take more, but for now he's more than happily content simply acclimating his body to the raw jolts of exquisite pleasure-pain that rack him as soon as something rubs over that delicate little gland.

 

It goes on like this for a few months. John dates and Sherlock stays at home, distracting himself with a puzzle or when that doesn’t work, uses one of the toys on his anus and prostate. John eventually moves on from the nurse, of course. He hooks up with a few waitresses, a veterinarian, and currently he's dating some teacher. Right now he’s with this teacher for a romantic weekend getaway. Tomorrow, John is set to return, and going by the man's patterns of womanizing, this relationship won't last much longer after this point.

 

This is the single glimmer of happiness Sherlock thinks about as he finds himself once more laying naked on his bed, exposed skin shivering strongly, all nerves and excitement zipping in his veins as he begins to indulge in this, the most personal, private naughty activity.

 

As he lets his hands softly play across the pale flesh of his body, he can’t help but imagine a different pair of hands touching him. Hands that are tanned, broader, rougher with calluses. John’s hands -- would they start by sifting through Sherlock’s curls, stroking down Sherlock’s long neck.  
  
Would his caresses be tender? Possessive?  Would they be accompanied by John’s deep gravelly voice whispering filthy things in Sherlock’s ears?

 

Would John kiss his skin left heated by the wake of his hot roving hands?

 

Sherlock's own hands move down his smooth chest. He suddenly whimpers when they touch one of his nipples. The pink nubs had stiffened when they were first exposed to the chilly air, but it has been his thoughts of John that has made them painfully erect.

 

_Oh god._

 

Would John touch his nipples, would he ever guess how sensitive they are? Surely not. Surely John would be too obsessed with chasing his own pleasure to figure out Sherlock’s body like that. John would be reluctant about his own sexuality to even bare to touch Sherlock’s body let alone be intuitive enough or passionate enough to intuit how much it turns Sherlock one.

 

But now, in the safety of his room, it can’t hurt to dream, can it? Is this _not-good_ , fantasizing about a John different from the normal John, a John completely invested in ravishing Sherlock? This John can't stop touching his nipples, teasing them, twisting the over-sensitive flesh just as Sherlock suits his fantasy with his own fingers as best he can. He trembles with desire, soft keens leak from his mouth, as he plucks the reddening nubs, pretending it’s John’s mouth and teeth now nibbling on them. And god, they hurt. They hurt _so bad._ In Sherlock’s mind palace, fantasy John is watching Sherlock’s face as he twists the nipples again, hard lust etched deeply in the lines of his handsomely worn face, a look almost predatory in intent.

 

AH! Sherlock cries out sharply. Lightning strikes his system, and he plucks his fingers back in an instant as if they’re the source electrocuting his oh-so-sensitive nipples.

 

But it’s too late. White hot fire sizzles in his blood. A burning ache coiling in his belly and suddenly slender hips jacknife upwards, his back arching off the bed, high-high- _high_ in the air. He comes so hard he can’t see. He can barely hear his ear-splitting screams.

 

It takes forever to come back down and when he has a semblance of himself back, he’s laying on his side, panting like he ran a race, curled in a ball in the fetal position he uses for sleeping or when he takes too much drugs. He's shivering violently from aftershocks, thin white come drying across his stomach. Every inch of his body is tender and raw… Sherlock has just enough energy to pull a blanket over himself before he succumbs to sleep and dreams John.  

**Author's Note:**

> I’m a very anxious writer so if you think I should continue or liked this even a little please leave a comment or kudos. It would make my world.


End file.
